


Bad Timing (Could Be Worse)

by sahiya



Series: 10,000 Wars [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fever, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11759391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: It's draft day and Jonny has the flu.





	Bad Timing (Could Be Worse)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildfoot/gifts).



> This was written for wildfoot for the prompt "fever/delirium" in my [2017 Fuck Trump H/C BINGO Fundraiser](http://sahiya.dreamwidth.org/736914.html). 
> 
> Many thanks to saudades for beta reading!

“I can do this.”

“Yeah, Jon, I don’t think so.”

“I can do this,” Jonny repeated stubbornly. He’d gotten as far as sitting on the edge of the bed. Actually standing up to go in and take a shower felt like a monumental task, but he was not going let Patrick down. Even if all he really wanted to was to crawl back into bed and sleep until he felt less like something scraped off the locker room floor. 

“Babe,” Patrick said, after nearly a minute had gone by and Jonny still hadn’t managed to move. “Come on. Just looking at you right now is painful. There is no reason for you to push yourself like this when you’re clearly sick as a dog.”

“I’m –”

“You’re not fine.” Patrick pressed his hand against Jonny’s head. “You’ve got a fever and you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“It’s draft day.”

“It’s _just_ draft day,” Patrick said, shoving Jonny back into the pillows. “I appreciate you playing the supportive partner at these things, but not enough to ask you to drag yourself out of bed when you have the flu.”

“I’m really sorry about the timing,” Jonny muttered as Patrick tucked the hotel room comforter over him. 

“The timing sucks,” Patrick agreed. “Being sick on the road is the worst. But since I’m not mad at you, you shouldn’t be mad at yourself.”

Jonny sighed. “I know, I just – I love watching you work. And I wanted to be there to support Sid.”

“And I’m sure he’ll be sorry to hear you’re sick,” Patrick said, disappearing into the bathroom. He came back out a few seconds later with a washcloth in his hands. “But he’s got just a few things going on today, too. Besides, you can watch on TV.” He folded the wet cloth up into thirds and draped it over Jonny’s forehead. “You want me to order something from room service for you?”

“I’m not hungry,” Jonny replied, huddling into the covers. Just sitting up had left him dizzy, nauseous, and sweaty. 

“Wrong answer,” Patrick said, and picked up the phone. 

Jonny listened without enthusiasm as Patrick ordered fruit, gluten-free oatmeal, tea, and orange juice for him. He didn’t think he was going to eat much of it, but if it made Patrick feel better, he wasn’t going to complain. 

“Okay, it should be here in twenty,” Patrick said, hanging up. He checked his watch and sighed. “I need to get going. If you need anything, text me, okay? I’ll try to come myself, but if I can’t, I’ll send someone.” 

“Okay,” Jonny said, figuring it was unlikely. He had water, a bathroom, and a TV, all within a few feet of each other. Patrick was right that being sick on the road was the worst, but at least it didn’t require a lot of energy to navigate a hotel room.

Patrick pressed a kiss to his sweaty forehead and left. 

Jonny had the TV remote within arm’s reach, but nothing would be happening with the draft for a few hours. Trades would probably be announced sooner than that, though, and he knew Patrick had a couple of significant moves up his sleeve. Jonny turned his head to stare listlessly out the window at the blue sky of Anaheim in June. In a few minutes, he’d find the will and the energy to turn the TV on and find NBCSN.

Jesus. Who got the flu in June, anyway? He didn't even have the excuse of having been around the petri dish that was his peewee team recently. This was just sad. 

Room service arrived with his food, and Jonny dragged himself out of bed to let them in. The room service attendant took one look at him and scooted out the door as quickly as possible – not that Jonny could blame him. He took the orange juice and oatmeal back to bed with him, where he sipped and nibbled cautiously. His stomach really didn't want anything, but he knew he’d feel worse if he let his blood sugar get too low. 

He was about to turn on the TV for the pre-draft commentary when his phone buzzed with a text message. _Pat says you’re sick_ , Sid had written.

Texting took more energy than Jonny had, so he turned on the voice-to-text. _Yeah, I’ve got the flu. Bad timing. Tell Ryan good luck today._

_He’s with his parents, but I’ll tell him when I see him._

_You think he’ll go top three?_

_I think so. I’m hoping Chicago instead of Vegas or St. Louis. I think the coaching staff and development program are better._

_I’m biased but I hope Chicago too. They could use some young blood._ The Hawks had struggled since he and Patrick had retired – longer than that, if Jonny was honest. They’d made the playoffs only sporadically the last few years, and they could use the infusion of enthusiasm and energy that a talented high draft pick could bring. 

_Want some company? I’m going to duck out of here after Ryan’s name is called. Otherwise Bettman will make me do interviews._

That actually sounded not-terrible. There weren’t that many people Jonny was willing to let see him right now, but Sid made the very short list. _Sounds good. I might be contagious, though._

_I’ll take my chances. See you in a bit._

He turned on the TV and pulled the covers up to his chin, dozing to the familiar voices of NBCSN’s hockey analysts. Some of them were guys he’d played with, back in the day, and it was weird now to hear them talking about potential trades Patrick might make, and whether Sid’s protegé was really as good as everyone said and where he might end up. 

Some things didn’t change, though. Gary Bettman was still one creepy motherfucker. And he didn’t seem to age, either, which was even weirder. He might have a little more silver hair than he’d had when Jonny had been playing, but his face never changed. 

He fell asleep during the trade talks and woke up just as they were getting ready to start the first round. He shuffled into the bathroom to pee and avoided his own eyes in the mirror. He didn’t really want to see how many shades of shit he looked like right now. He was shivering and lightheaded just from getting out of bed; he didn’t have a thermometer, but he didn’t need one to know his fever had gone up. He unearthed a couple of dusty Tylenol from the bottom of his doc kit and swallowed them with water from the tap. 

The TV was replaying interviews with some of the high draft picks when he shuffled back in. He huddled under the covers, trying to re-find the pocket of warmth he’d managed to create before. 

He was so busy feeling miserable that he almost missed the first pick – not Ryan after all, but since Sid hadn’t wanted him to go to Vegas anyway, Jonny guessed that was okay. He tried to pay more attention to the second one, which was Chicago’s. 

Stan was still GM, but Jonny knew he’d told Patrick that he thought he only had one more rebuild left in him, and then he was going to have to think about retiring. Jonny wondered if Patrick ever thought about making the move from Edmonton back to Chicago. It wasn’t something they’d talked about, and they were both pretty well ensconced in Edmonton right now. But. Someday. Maybe. 

“The Chicago Blackhawks,” Stan was saying, when Jonny forced himself to pay attention again, “are pleased to announce that our first pick for the 2035 NHL draft is Ryan Campbell.”

Jonny grinned, pleased for Sid and for Ryan, who’d seemed like a good kid the handful of times Jonny had met him. Ryan went up and accepted the jersey from Stan, pulling it on with an awkward grin the Hawks’ media team would train out of him within three months. The camera, predictably, found Sid where he was sitting with Ryan’s parents. Sid gave a grin and a wave, looking less uncomfortable than he usually did on camera. 

_Congrats_ , he sent to Sid. 

_Thanks. Give me 30 to see Ryan through the worst of the media circus._

_Take your time_. Jonny turned the sound down on the television, not quite muting it. Patrick had traded away the Oilers’ first round pick this year for the star goaltender they’d snapped up from Dallas last season, so he wouldn’t be up for a while. Plenty of time for a nap. 

He dozed off and only kind of woke up when he heard someone come in. “Pat?” he mumbled into his pillow. 

“No, it’s me,” Sid said. “Pat gave me his key so you wouldn’t have to get up.” There was the rustling of some plastic bags. “Jesus, Jon, you look like shit.”

“I’ve got the flu,” Jonny said, rolling over to glare up at him. “What’s your excuse?”

Sid just laughed. In a bespoke suit with his hair properly gelled, he did not look like shit, and he damn well knew it. “I got some Advil and stuff for you. Patrick said he didn’t think you had any.”

“I took some Tylenol, but I might’ve still been playing when I bought it.” Jonny dragged himself upright and held his hand out. He swallowed the Advil with two sips from the bottle of fizzy water Sid handed him. “You sure you want to risk catching this?”

Sid shrugged. “I got my shot. Plus, even with the flu, you are much better company than Gary Bettman.”

“I was just thinking that he never seems to age,” Jonny said. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“That’s the least of it,” Sid said, cracking open a Gatorade and sprawling across the chaise lounge near the window. “Didn’t you hear the rumors a few years ago?”

Jonny blinked. “Um, no?”

“I guess it might’ve been after you retired but before Patrick took the job with Edmonton,” Sid said. “There was a venture capitalist out in California that was funding some crazy anti-aging project that involved replacing all his blood with the blood of twenty-year-olds.”

Jonny stared at him. “What.”

“Yeah. _That_ is fact,” Sid added. “You can look that up. But the rumor was that Bettman was involved, and the reason he never seems to get any older is that he’s got the blood of someone forty years younger.”

Jonny didn’t even know what to say to that. “That is creepy as fuck,” he finally said.

“So is Gary Bettman.” 

“Truth. Jesus.” Jonny rubbed a hand over his face and decided to change the subject. “Ryan happy?”

“Thrilled,” Sid said, smiling. “So are his parents.”

“They all look like babies to me,” Jonny said, watching the TV, where the Sens had just called their first round pick. The kid still had acne. “Weird to think that’s it been almost thirty years.”

“It has been thirty years for me,” Sid said. “Thirty years this year.”

“Whoa,” Jonny said, looking at him. 

“Yup. I gave some interviews about it yesterday – about how the sport has changed, what I’ve seen in the last three decades, that kind of thing.” Sid shook his head. “I’m kind of trying not to think about it.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I feel a lot better about it now than I would have a few years ago.” Sid shrugged. “Anyway, don’t worry about entertaining me. Go ahead and pass out if you need to.”

“Thanks,” Jonny said. “I might.” Though he felt a little better just for not being totally alone. Sid was easy to hang out with, quiet and undemanding. Sid had seen him at his worst, right after Patrick had gone to Edmonton, and he’d seen Sid during some pretty shitty times, too. Sid had a lot going on up in Halifax now, and Jonny had his work in Edmonton, so it’d been awhile since they’d actually gotten the chance to hang out in person. He wished he was well enough to enjoy it.

He only realized he’d fallen asleep when he woke to Sid shaking his shoulder. “Mmph,” Jonny protested, trying to roll away. 

“No, c’mon, Jon, time for more Advil. And Pat wants me to take your temperature.”

“Pat?” Jonny said, and refocused blearily on the TV. “I miss his pick?”

“Yeah, you slept through it. He took a kid from Shattuck. Swallow these.”

“Oh, him,” Jonny said, dimly remembering Patrick’s muttering during the plane ride. “Yeah. S’good.” He swallowed the pills with two sips of Gatorade and then had to stop and breathe, because he felt like his stomach might rebel. “Think I prefer the fizzy water.”

Sid swapped them out without question. Jonny took a couple more cautious sips. “I feel like shit,” he sighed.

“You look worse than you did earlier.” Sid rested his hand on Jon’s forehead. “You’re burning up. Open.” He waved a digital thermometer in Jonny’s face. 

“Where’d that come from?” Jonny asked, then glared when Sid used the opportunity to stick it in his mouth. 

“The drug store. Stop talking.”

Jonny gave up. He tried to watch the TV but quickly realized that he couldn’t really follow any of it. The thermometer beeped, and Sid took it out to read it. He made a concerned noise. “102.2,” he said, and grabbed his phone. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Texting Pat.”

“No, no, no,” Jonny protested, trying to grab the phone out of Sid’s hands. “You’ll distract him.”

“He asked me to tell him.”

“Just tell him I’m fine,” Jonny said. “Here, just say: _Jonny says to tell you he’s fine and you should quit worrying and focus on your job._ There. No lies at all.”

Sid did not look impressed. “He’s your partner, Jon.”

“And I’m his,” Jonny said. “And right now, he’s got other priorities.” Which sucked, Jonny reflected, because he really _did_ wish Patrick were here. Sid was great and all, but Jonny didn’t think he was going to stroke Jonny’s hair or mop his fevered brow. Though maybe he was wrong, he thought, as Sid heaved a sigh, went into the bathroom, and came back with a fresh damp washcloth. He folded it over and draped it over Jonny’s forehead.

“You’re too goddamn stubborn for your own good,” Sid told him, picking up his phone. 

“So I’ve been told.” Jonny went quiet as he watched Sid type. He sipped a little more at the fizzy water, but his head was getting too heavy to hold up much longer. “What’d you say?” he asked blearily. 

“What you told me to,” Sid said. “Here, give me that before you spill.” He took the bottle of fizzy water away. He slid his hand behind Jonny’s neck and shoulders and helped him ease back down under the covers. “Get some rest. Hopefully the second dose of Advil will do the trick.”

“Yeah,” Jonny said, eyelids growing heavy. “Okay. But wake me for Pat’s next pick.”

Sid smiled at him crookedly. “No promises.”

Jonny fell asleep before he could even think about arguing. 

He woke again to low voices – not the murmur of the TV, but real ones. Pat and Sid, he realized after a few seconds, and relaxed. 

“...thanks for hanging out with him today, I appreciate it.”

“Don’t worry about it. He slept most of the day, but his fever was pretty high earlier – he didn’t want to worry you, but...”

“I figured. I’ll check it again when he wakes up.”

“You guys leaving tomorrow?”

“We were supposed to, but I had my assistant change our tickets and extend our stay at the hotel by a couple of nights. He can’t get on a plane like this, and I don’t have anything super pressing now that the draft is over. You?”

“Staying for a few days. Taylor’s flying in, and I think we’re gonna go to the beach. You’re welcome to join us if Jon feels up to it.”

“We might, thanks.”

“I gotta go – I’m meeting Ryan’s family for dinner in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay – thanks again, I felt better knowing you were up here.”

“Thanks, Sid,” Jonny managed to mumble, though he couldn’t quite get his eyes to open. Everything, from his eyelids to his toes, felt like it had lead weights attached to it.

“No problem, Jon. Feel better.”

Jonny closed his eyes and listened to Patrick seeing Sid off at the door. Then there was quiet, and the rustle of clothing, the sound of a belt being unbuckled: Patrick taking his suit off.

He managed to pry his eyes open when Patrick collapsed onto the bed, clad in boxers and his undershirt. “Fuck, it’s good to sit down,” Patrick sighed. “Draft day never gets shorter, no matter how many times I do it. C’mon, put this thermometer under your tongue. Sid ratted you out, I know it was higher earlier than you wanted me to know.” Patrick pulled the now-warm washcloth off Jonny’s forehead and pressed the backs of his fingers there instead. He made a worried noise and smoothed Jonny’s hair back, heedless of how gross it had to be. 

The thermometer beeped. Patrick glanced at it. “101.7. Is that higher or lower than earlier?”

“Lower,” Jonny muttered. “Half a degree.”

“Well, at least it’s moving in the right direction. Time to Advil up, anyway.” He gave Jonny two more of the pills Sid had brought. Then, to Jonny’s relief, Patrick crawled up the bed and settled against the headboard. He pulled Jonny into his lap and helped him get comfortable, with his head pillowed on Patrick’s stomach. It gave Patrick access to his neck and back, and for a few minutes they were both quiet while Patrick rubbed slow circles between Jonny’s shoulder blades. 

Jonny felt like everything in his head was operating on a delay, which was probably why it took a good ten minutes for the conversation he’d overheard between Patrick and Sid to catch up with him. “You changed our tickets?” he mumbled. 

“Yeah. I know it sucks to be sick in a hotel, but I couldn’t imagine dealing with the airport, much less the actual flight, with you feeling like this.”

It did sound awful. Jonny didn’t think he’d last the whole flight without puking. “Didn’t even think about it. Thanks.”

Patrick started running his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Jonny’s neck. “No problem.”

Jonny sighed. “Missed almost everything this afternoon. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’d be more upset if you’d forced yourself to stay awake and watch.”

“Mmm. I guess. Tell me?”

Jonny had the feeling he wasn’t being very coherent, but Patrick seemed to know what he was asking for, and it wasn’t like talking about hockey was a hardship for him. He started rambling about the players they’d picked up, both through trades and the draft, how everyone fit within the system he and Beckett were developing for next year and beyond. Jonny let the words wash over him: _Two-way play, steady locker room presence, kid needs to work on his backcheck but his stickhandling is beautiful, physical play I think we’re missing, high faceoff percentage, potential to put him on the PK and God knows we need it_...

Eventually, even Patrick ran out of words related to hockey. Jonny stayed quiet, not quite asleep, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Patrick’s stomach beneath his cheek as he breathed evenly. Some time later, he felt Patrick move, reach for the bedside phone, then heard him order room service for them both: a club sandwich for himself, chicken soup for Jonny. Jonny thought about protesting that he wasn’t hungry, but he was so comfortable where he was, and he didn’t want the argument. 

When the food came, Patrick would have to get up. But for the moment, Jonny had him right where he wanted him. 

_Fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> Silicon Valley venture capitalist and Trump supporter Peter Thiel [vants to suck your blood](https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2017/06/this-anti-aging-start-up-is-paying-thousands-of-dollars-for-teen-blood) (but only if you're under 25).


End file.
